


Winning Hand

by featherx



Series: requests [37]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Fingerfucking, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Rimming, top caspar/bottom linhardt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26442883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx
Summary: Byleth really can be terribly difficult to read, but unlike Caspar, Linhardt doesn’t have anything to lose with them. If Byleth finds out about his feelings and rejects him, well… it might sting, but it won’t do much in the long run. And if they like him back? That’s something Linhardt will deal with if the time comes.With Caspar, on the other hand… it’s simply too big a risk to take, with far too much on the line. Better Linhardt bury his emotions as best as he can and act like everything is fine, for both of their sakes.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Series: requests [37]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1388335
Comments: 7
Kudos: 115





	Winning Hand

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: a third part to my casphardt fwb mini-series! thanks for requesting! ❤

During their academy days, Caspar remembers staring blankly out the window during class and seeing two students standing just close enough to see. He can’t remember who they are now, or if they’re even still alive anymore, but he had watched one student hand the other a bouquet of flowers, and then the other student had shaken their head and walked away after quite a bit of talking. The rejected student stood there for a long time, even after class had ended.

Caspar remembers thinking that had been pretty pathetic, and then scolding himself for being so mean, even if he didn’t actually do anything at the time. He couldn’t imagine _he’d_ be rejected so terribly like that—for one, he wouldn’t try to go after anyone who he knew didn’t like him in that way, and honestly, romance had been the farthest thing on his mind.

Five years later, he supposes he was right after all: he didn’t need to be directly rejected to feel pathetic.

The doorknob clicks; Caspar groans and tries to bury his face in his hands before whoever is entering, probably someone from the monastery staff, can see him, but it’s too late. “Caspar?” a very familiar and very unwelcome voice asks. “Are you… alright? What are you doing in a broom closet?”

Why, why, _why_ does it have to be _them,_ of all people? “H-Hey, Professor,” Caspar manages, peeking up at Byleth from between his fingers. “Er… Uh… Fancy seeing you here, eh?”

Byleth looks confused for a moment, then crouches down. Great. Now it’d be even easier for them to see the red rimming Caspar’s eyes and the tear tracks down his cheeks. “Is something wrong?” they ask, voice the softest Caspar’s ever heard it. Not much room for a soft voice on the battlefield, after all. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Oh, no, no no no,” Caspar laughs, although he probably sounds like a dying animal instead. He picks himself up, dusting off his pants and doing his best to ignore how Byleth looks up at him in rare concern. “I’m fine, I just—uh, there’s—there’s a lotta dust in here, y’know? Better, er, clean up every now and then, yeah—I’ll get going, just. Ugh. Bye.”

He pushes past Byleth, making sure not to actually shove them too hard no matter how badly he wants to, and hurries to the direction of the dorms.

Linhardt has a theory.

Okay, that’s a stretch. Linhardt doesn’t have a theory. He barely even has an idea of the problem. But a vague idea is better than nothing, and he tests this idea out the next time he catches Caspar after a tactics meeting.

He acts much the same as usual—lazy, languid, lethargic, nothing that would make it obvious that he’s actually trying to think, though not about the topic of the meeting itself. As soon as it’s adjourned, Linhardt stands up and heads over to Caspar’s side, who seems too distracted by the paper he’s looking over to notice right away. “Caspar,” he says. “Do you want to—”

“L-Lin! I didn’t see you there!” Caspar exclaims, jolting away from his touch in surprise. Linhardt tries not to frown—Caspar gets startled sometimes, sure, but he doesn’t recoil from Linhardt’s hand like he did just now.

“Apologies. Anyway, I was wondering if—”

“I’m, uh—sorry, Lin, I’m a little busy right now,” Caspar interrupts, backing away from Linhardt. When was the last time he had _backed away_ from Linhardt? Actually, had he ever done that at all? “Okay talk to you later bye!”

And then he’s out the room, leaving Linhardt in the dust and feeling rather stupid. At least his theory has been confirmed: for some reason, Caspar has started distancing himself from him.

The thought should not sting as much as it does. Linhardt had gone through the possibilities as to why this is happening over his head earlier, and he had come up with a few options, the most notable of which being Linhardt had done something during their last session to result in this. And honestly, it’s probably obvious what that ‘something’ is, specifically.

Linhardt sits himself down on the nearest chair, huffing indignantly—everyone else has left the meeting room, so he can at least grouch by himself in peace. Ever since Caspar had first walked in on Linhardt… ahem, touching himself, and offered to help him out with it because that is clearly what normal best friends do with each other, they’ve made it a habit to go to the other when they needed to… release sexual frustrations, as it may be. In Linhardt’s case, it’s because his attraction to the professor is far more troublesome than he had expected; on the other hand, Caspar seems to like _someone,_ certainly, though he always denies it and Linhardt can’t figure out who it might be—he likes to think he’s quite the expert on Caspar now, considering everything, but he hasn’t observed Caspar acting differently with certain people. Some candidates include Ashe and Raphael, but when Linhardt questioned him about it, Caspar had seemed genuinely confused as to why Linhardt would even think that…

He shakes his head; he’s getting off-track again. This always happens when he thinks about who Caspar might like, for some reason. In any case, Linhardt had let slip Byleth’s nickname in their last session by accident, and at Caspar’s insistence, he’d ended up calling Caspar _Professor_ all the way through. At the time it had seemed like just another coping mechanism, but thinking about it now has Linhardt’s cheeks warming in uncharacteristic embarrassment. No wonder Caspar can’t face him now—Linhardt would be thoroughly uncomfortable after something like that, too.

Linhardt stands up, blinking the dizziness away. He can’t let this drag on any longer—Caspar deserves both an apology and an explanation about that, though really, he might have to be the one to ask Caspar for details. He can’t remember much of what happened after the spanking, for one…

“Linhardt? You’re still here?”

“Ah—Professor?” Linhardt blinks, leaning back against the long table. Oh, wonderful—it’s just the two of them alone in the tactics room. Now the only difference between this situation and his own fantasies is the amount of clothes they still have on. “Yes, I was… thinking about something. Did you need anything?”

Byleth steps over and takes a book from the table. “Just this. I almost forgot. But, um, since you’re here…” They shrug. “Would you like to have some tea with me? I found Angelica teabags in my room the other day.”

“Oh?” Linhardt has to tamp down the excitement he can feel swelling up in him. Teatime with Byleth? Now this is more like that other fantasy of his. “Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do for now.” Well, he has to talk to Caspar, but it isn’t an emergency or anything—an hour or two with Byleth wouldn’t hurt.

Byleth brightens. “Alright. I’ll prepare the tea—you go ahead and sit by the table.”

It’s a lovely day outside, not too sunny nor too cloudy and with a pleasant breeze ruffling Linhardt’s hair, turning it nice and windswept. He reclines against the garden chair, staring up at the clear sky. Byleth does seem to be talking to him more, or at least inviting him to more tea parties, and while it’s nice, Linhardt still can’t stop thinking about Caspar’s unusual behavior. Caspar may not be terribly book-smart, but he _is_ far more emotionally intelligent than others give him credit for; if he had a problem with Linhardt, he’d talk it out with him, not… avoid him, like this.

Linhardt sighs, tempted to bury his face in his hands. Why does this even bother him so much? Oh, no, he knows the answer to _that_ question—because it just confirms his fears from five years ago, when they were still students and every night Linhardt ran over the possibilities of what would happen if he ever told Caspar about his feelings.

Could anyone blame him? He was sixteen, going on seventeen years old, and it took him ages to realize the reason for why his head spun and his palms sweated whenever his best friend of ten years grinned at him. It took him even longer to decide what to do, which was to pretend these pesky feelings didn’t exist and that he wasn’t bothered by Caspar’s clear disinterest at all. Caspar, after all, never shied away from his own emotions—if he liked Linhardt back, even the slightest bit, he would have showed it somehow, and Linhardt, expert on all things Caspar, would certainly have noticed.

But he hadn’t. There was nothing to notice, then. Linhardt had imagined how Caspar might react if Linhardt ever told him about how he felt, and the mere thought of Caspar looking at him in—in shock, in fear, in _disgust—_

“Caspar!” someone shouts, snapping Linhardt out of his thoughts. He turns around to see… Ashe? “Did you find him?”

Caspar, carrying a cat in his arms, comes bursting out of a bush. Linhardt wishes he could say he were surprised, but he’s personally witnessed all sorts of dramatic entrances from Caspar over the years that he’s barely even fazed. “Yep! Smells of meatloaf, though, so I think he ran away here after stealing from the pantry again.”

Linhardt preoccupies himself by following the curve of Caspar’s smile until Byleth arrives, hurrying over to set the table. “Sorry for the wait,” they apologize. Their movements—arranging the tea cups and confectioneries, pouring the tea, sliding the saucer over to Linhardt—are all obviously muscle memory by now, with how easy and relaxed they move. Linhardt can still remember their first few attempts at this, when they had been so nervous they spilled the scalding hot tea all over themselves and finished all the sweets before poor Linhardt could even try one. Ah, better days.

He leans over, subtly arranging his hair to drape artfully over his shoulder, a tried and true tactic. “So, Professor,” Linhardt says, doing his best to ignore Caspar and Ashe’s voices from behind, “is there another reason you asked me out here today?” He might as well take this opportunity by the reins, after all, even if Linhardt’s never been particularly good at horseback riding.

Byleth blinks. “I thought you might like the tea. Do I… need another reason?”

Linhardt suppresses a sigh—oblivious as always. Byleth really can be terribly difficult to read, but unlike Caspar, Linhardt doesn’t have anything to lose with them. If Byleth finds out about his feelings and rejects him, well… it might sting, but it won’t do much in the long run. And if they like him back? That’s something Linhardt will deal with if the time comes.

With Caspar, on the other hand… it’s simply too big a risk to take, with far too much on the line. Better Linhardt bury his emotions as best as he can and act like everything is fine, for both of their sakes.

“Linhardt.” Byleth sips their tea. “You seem distracted. Are you troubled by something?”

“Well…” Linhardt frowns. He would rather not bring this up with anyone, but Byleth has always been willing to lend an ear to just about anyone who looks even mildly concerned. He supposes it wouldn’t hurt—it’d be just like dropping a note in the advice box, albeit not very anonymously. “Someone I consider dear has been avoiding me of late, and I’m not quite sure how to talk to them about it…”

Byleth looks completely unsurprised. “Is it Caspar?”

“…Professor never ceases to amaze.”

“It was obvious. You just don’t call anyone ‘dear’ to you. And I thought he’s been looking down recently, too.” Byleth glances over at where Caspar and Ashe still are. Linhardt can feel his nerves beginning to fray—is the monastery so small that they absolutely _have_ to chatter within hearing distance from them right now? “Caspar is a very straightforward person, Linhardt. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you bring the matter up soon.”

“Yes, well…” _Forgive me for not quite knowing how to bring up the matter of ‘I called him by your name during sex.’_ Linhardt sips his tea, meaning to give himself some more time to think about his next words, when he blinks and frowns at the voices behind him.

“I’m real sorry about this,” Ashe is saying, shyly. “I know it was my turn to take care of him today, but I turned around for one second and then he was gone…”

Caspar laughs, and it’s such a terribly familiar sound that Linhardt’s chest twists upon hearing it. When was the last time Caspar laughed at something Linhardt said? It feels like it’s been months since the strange, awkward tension between them has developed, even though he can swear it’s just barely been a week. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. It wasn’t a problem, really!”

A thunderclap of realization strikes Linhardt just then—Caspar must like _Ashe._ No, judging from how they’re talking, they must already be _together._ Maybe that’s why Caspar doesn’t want to… well, help Linhardt out anymore, because he already has Ashe to do that sort of thing with. Linhardt swallows down whatever pained noise he might have made at the thought—this isn’t his business, it’s Caspar, he can pick and choose whomever he likes and whomever he wants to have sex with. It’s not Linhardt’s business. It’s not.

So why does his heart hurt so _much?_

“Still!” Ashe insists. “I’ll try to keep a better eye on him next time, I’d really rather not trouble you while you’re training anymore.”

“Sheesh, Ashe, no need to feel so guilty. You know I’m always happy to help!”

There’s a warm hand, wrapped around Linhardt’s wrist and tugging roughly. “Linhardt,” Byleth says, voice firm. “Calm down. You’re hurting yourself.”

“I—What?” Linhardt looks down, and—oh. How had he not noticed? He dispels the fire magic that had sparked to life in his palm, but his skin is already red and burnt. Byleth stands up, silent, and walks around the table to stand beside Linhardt and cast a Heal spell on his hand. “You didn’t have to, but thank you anyway,” Linhardt mutters. Pain has always been good for distraction, after all.

Byleth gives him a tired look. “Would you like to know something?”

“Er. What?”

“When we first met, I thought you were someone who didn’t care about anything.” Byleth moves back but doesn’t return to their side of the table, staying beside Linhardt instead.

Linhardt frowns again. “You aren’t wrong.”

“I was. The more I learned about you, the more I realized you do care, too much, and that’s why you hide it.” Byleth shakes their head. “You may think you were hiding your feelings for Caspar well back then, five years ago, but it was easy even for me to tell.”

Linhardt stares at them. “You…”

“I don’t want this to be a problem between you two, so please do communicate as soon as possible,” Byleth instructs, sounding more and more like a teacher with their every word. “Oh, but do finish your tea and have some sweets first. Right after, though…”

“Ugh.” Communication? Linhardt can’t think of a concept he detests more. Still, he sneaks a glance behind him—Ashe is cooing to the cat now, and Caspar is staring at _them,_ rather unsubtly at that, hurriedly looking away when he catches Linhardt’s eye. Hm… curious. Is he checking to make sure Linhardt had followed their conversation, then, and came to the conclusion that Caspar and Ashe are together? “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, Professor.” Linhardt takes a long sip of his tea, staring up at the cloudless sky again. “I’ll… make an attempt.”

Byleth looks resigned to that.

Linhardt isn’t much for waiting around without nothing to do, but he supposes he’ll have to bear with it for Caspar’s sake. He waits until Caspar is absorbed enough in his training at the training grounds before heading up to his dorm room, picking the lock open with a handy bit of wind magic, and then making himself at home on the bed. Caspar’s room is a cluttered mess of training weights, empty plates from the dining hall, and an assortment of knickknacks Linhardt can’t make heads nor tails of.

He dozes off at some point, as per Linhardt whenever he happens to be inactive for a length of time, and wakes up to Caspar walking in his room and shouting, “ _Wah!_ ” when their eyes meet. “L-Linhardt! What the heck? Couldn’t you have just waited outside? Wait, how’d you even get in?”

Linhardt waves that off. “Not important. Caspar, can we talk?”

This sobers Caspar up fairly quickly—he pushes the door closed behind him and takes a few slow, almost cautious, steps closer to Linhardt, who pushes himself to sit up on the bed. “About…?”

“I think you know,” Linhardt says, bluntly. He’d rather not drag this out any longer than necessary, if only so he can have more time to himself later to lay in his own bed and wallow in self-pity. “You’ve been avoiding me. May I know why? I have my suspicions, but I want to hear it from you.”

Caspar looks physically pained. “I-I don’t know what you’re—”

“Caspar.”

“I—” Caspar scowls. “I mean, s-so what if I’m… avoiding you, Lin! Maybe I’m busy or I gotta do something or… or… or maybe I just don’t wanna see you!”

Linhardt closes his eyes. He never quite expected a few words would hurt several hundred times more than a sword in his chest or a plethora of arrows buried in his back. If this is how death feels like, he’d almost rather take the battlefield. “I see,” he murmurs, and he pretends his voice doesn’t audibly tremble. “That’s… I see. But may I know _why?_ ” he repeats, lifting his gaze and doing his best to will the heat out of his eyes. If Caspar sees him cry now…

Caspar stares at him, his expression a mix of frustration and confusion and so many other things Linhardt can’t pinpoint. “No, I… I’m sorry, Lin, I didn’t mean that, it’s just… well, I mean, the other day, when you…”

“Alright. I understand.”

Caspar looks bewildered. “You do?”

Linhardt nods. “When I accidentally… said the professor’s name. I understand. That must have been terribly uncomfortable for you, but you went with it anyway for my sake. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“Oh, well—” Caspar looks like he hadn’t expected this turn of events at all. “I mean, yeah, but—”

“Then I apologize for that. I also understand you’re with Ashe now, so I won’t bother you with needing your help anymore,” Linhardt continues, figuring he may as well get this all over with in one fell swoop, “but I really would appreciate it if we could at least stay friends. I don’t like this tension between us. Does that… sound alright?”

Now Caspar looks absolutely confounded. “Huh? Hold on, wait, you lost me at Ashe. You think we’re—we’re _together?_ ”

“That’s what I said.” Linhardt stares at him. “Am I wrong? I thought you two have been growing closer as of late. Or are you still in the pining stage?” He feels his eyes widen as yet another realization hits him. “Do—Did you think about him whenever we fucked?”

“No, I’m not pining for _him,_ and _no,_ I didn’t do that!” Caspar exclaims, voice probably loud enough for whoever his neighbors are to hear. “Look, Lin, let me—let me try to, uh, explain. It… It’s true that the whole professor thing kind of threw me off-kilter,” he says, speaking slowly as if making sure Linhardt understands every word, “and… and it’s true I… like… someone, but—but I don’t like _Ashe_ in that way. And you didn’t do anything wrong either, that day! We agreed this—” He gestures vaguely between them. “This thing between us would be, y’know, helping each other out. And that’s what I did.”

Linhardt’s brain feels ready to melt in his skull. “I… see,” he says, even if he doesn’t. “So… you’re pining for someone else?”

“Please stop using that word,” Caspar sighs.

“So you like someone else,” Linhardt amends, despite the burn of jealousy in his chest. Goddess, _jealousy_ —he never thought he’d see the day these pesky old feelings would rise from their grave. “You could have told me sooner. I wouldn’t have judged you for it. Anyway, I’ll be happy to help if you want to, just tell me who they are and—”

“You.”

Linhardt pauses. His heartbeat is a war drum, echoing in his ears. “I’m sorry?”

“You, Lin.” Caspar bites down on his lower lip, the fabric of his loose pants bunched up in his fists. “I like you, damn it.”

Oh. It all comes rushing back to him now, the small, strange things Caspar did that Linhardt couldn’t understand back then: how carefully he took care of Linhardt after each of their sessions, how he always made sure to check up on him every step of the way and make sure he still wanted to continue, how he’d sometimes hold Linhardt in such a soft, tender way that Linhardt had to blink several times to get a hold of himself. How being called _Professor_ clearly unnerved him, but he still went along with it, _insisted_ Linhardt keep doing it.

Afterwards, when Linhardt woke up comfortable and curled up in bed, he had stared up at the ceiling and wondered what sort of person went that far for their friend—true, they’re _best_ friends, but still. Even Caspar can’t be that nice, can he?

The drum of his heartbeat starts up again, louder than ever in his head. Now he knows why.

Caspar is already in the middle of turning away and walking out of his own room, babbling something like, “Okay, I’m gonna go die—go, I’m gonna go,” when Linhardt leaps off the bed, nearly falling over from the dizzy spell that immediately hits him, and grabs onto Caspar’s wrist. “ _No,_ Lin, I _don’t_ wanna talk about it,” Caspar snaps, but he sounds more miserable than angry. “I already know you don’t like me back, it was kind of obvious, so let me just—”

“Caspar—”

“—dealing with this since the professor returned and I don’t know _when_ or _why_ it started, I just know I lo— _like you,_ and—”

“ _Caspar—_ ”

“—so when I walked in on you doing, you know, _that,_ I just sort of went crazy for a second and next thing I knew we were fucking and then it just kept _going,_ ” Caspar is ranting, “and then it became a _regular thing,_ and I just—I mean, we spent even more time together, too, even outside of doing stuff like that, so that’s why I just—I just kept liking you more and more and then, and then when you suddenly called me _Professor—_ ”

Seeing as getting Caspar to listen to him is going to be a lost cause, Linhardt grabs Caspar by the shoulders instead to pull him back, forcing him to turn around and face Linhardt, who wastes no time before pressing close and kissing him quiet.

Caspar shuts up so quickly he bites down on Linhardt’s upper lip, which, well, hurts, but Linhardt can’t bring himself to care about that right now. He draws back instead and fixes the now-silent Caspar with a stern glare. “Well?” Linhardt says. “Are you willing to listen to me now?”

Caspar opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it and just gives him a jerky nod.

“Good.” There’s no reason to hold on to Caspar, but Linhardt keeps his grip on Caspar’s shoulders. If anything, it should at least serve as a reminder that Linhardt is not letting Caspar go this time. “Do you remember when we were still students, some five years ago, and I asked you if you ever liked anyone?”

“Uh…” Caspar looks thoughtful, then nods again. “I think so? Sorry, I probably didn’t think it was important then.” Then his eyes widen. “Wait a minute. Did you… That time…?”

Linhardt sighs. “Yes, Caspar, I liked you even then. I didn’t want to tell you because I feared it would… affect our relationship, negatively, and that you would start avoiding me because of it, like what’s been happening recently.” He can’t bring himself to meet Caspar’s eyes, choosing to stare at a spot next to his nose instead. “But I never stopped liking you. I may have buried those feelings and done my best to pretend they didn’t exist, but they’re still there, all the same. My attraction to the professor is nothing more than a passing fancy where I have nothing to lose, but when it comes to you…” He swallows, shakes his head. “It’s a gamble where I was risking everything I didn’t want to lose. Forgive me for not being more honest.”

Silence. Linhardt musters the courage to look back up into Caspar’s eyes again, and tries not to wince when he sees Caspar gawking at him like a fish out of water. Not quite the reaction he had been hoping for, but it is rather similar to the reaction he had been expecting. “So…” Caspar eventually coughs. “You… like me?”

“I did just kiss you,” Linhardt reminds him. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“That wasn’t a _kiss,_ ” Caspar protests. “You did it just to shut me up—wait! Are you serious? You like me? But what about the professor? I thought you _loved_ them!”

Linhardt makes a face. “What ever gave you that idea?” Of course he likes Byleth, but not so deep as to _love_ them. He’s fairly sure they have something going on with Yuri, after all, but that’s not important right now.

“You—” Caspar shakes his head. “I can’t believe this. I’ve liked you for _months,_ and now you’re telling me you like me _back?_ Only _after_ we’ve fucked, like, a hundred times?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s already been a hundred,” Linhardt muses aloud. The number would probably be closer to fifty. “But we could make it a hundred, if you like.”

Caspar blinks, stares. “Ah.” Reddens, beautifully. “You’re sure, right, Lin? This isn’t just… I don’t know, you taking pity on me or something?”

“Caspar.” Linhardt moves his grip from Caspar’s shoulders to his cheeks instead, cupping his face in his hands. Have they ever done this before? Linhardt doesn’t think regular best friends do this with one another, but then again, they’ve never really been _regular,_ in any sense of the word. “I love you. Now will you please give me a proper kiss?”

The _love_ word probably does something to Caspar’s head, but blessedly enough he doesn’t hesitate any longer—he surges forward, their lips crashing together, and _oh,_ now _this_ is what a kiss is supposed to feel like, is supposed to do to Linhardt. His entire body sings in delight, skin tingling with pleasure, heart threatening to bounce right out of his chest—their lips slide against each other’s, Caspar’s hands already moving to grip Linhardt’s waist as if on reflex, and Linhardt lets himself be pushed down onto the bed behind him. “Lin,” Caspar breathes, drawing back just enough to speak against his mouth. “ _Lin._ ”

“Yes, Caspar.” Linhardt presses their foreheads together, breathes and breathes and prays to the Goddess neither of them ever have to stop breathing. “I’m here.”

“I don’t have to pretend anymore, do I?”

Linhardt closes his eyes. “You never had to. You never should have.”

Their previous… attempts at helping each other out had usually been rough, careless, fast-paced. Linhardt was frustrated and lonely and, okay, horny, and he supposes Caspar had been equally… frustrated, of sorts. But now Caspar handles him with the kind of tenderness Linhardt hadn’t thought anyone could be capable of—he peppers Linhardt’s face with kisses while he unbuttons his blouse and undoes his trousers, and Linhardt’s so distracted that he only notices he’s fully naked when Caspar wraps a hand around his length. “C— _ah_ —C-Caspar…”

Caspar pauses, and Linhardt tries not to complain about that. “What is it?”

He sounds so _enamored_ that even Linhardt, emotionless extraordinaire, notices—he pushes himself up off the bed for the second time within the past few minutes, meeting Caspar’s eyes, and he has to suppress a shiver at what he sees. Caspar looks so… different—there’s warmth in his gaze, gentleness in his every action and movement, a smile so faint on his face that he probably doesn’t even realize it’s there. Linhardt can’t resist—he pulls Caspar closer for another kiss, and then another, and another, and by the time they separate again Caspar looks wonderfully dazed. “Let me.”

“Uh?” Caspar says, eloquently.

Linhardt nudges Caspar to lie down on his bed so Linhardt can climb atop him instead, reversing their previous—and usual—positions. Caspar doesn’t resist, though he does look confused. “You’re always taking care of me,” Linhardt says, doing his very best to keep his eyes on Caspar’s face rather than on the tempting tent in his pants. “Let me do some of the work for once.”

The confuse gives way to surprise, which then gives way to a bark of laughter. “Coming from you, Lin? I never thought I’d hear you say anything like that!”

“I did say ‘for once,’” Linhardt says, though he can’t quite hold back a smile of his own either; if it’s for Caspar, he thinks he’d gladly do this as many times as he likes. He leans down to kiss him again, because now that he’s experienced it he doesn’t think he can ever get enough of it, and Caspar reciprocates, licking at the inside of his mouth. It makes undressing him far more distracting and troublesome than it should be, when Linhardt’s hands refuse to stop shaking, but Linhardt is also certainly not about to stop Caspar.

Why did they wait so _long_ before doing this? Linhardt is sure he would have enjoyed the past few months much more if they had just _communicated._ Oh, well—at least he has this now.

Linhardt pauses when he finally gets Caspar’s clothes off of him, minus his underwear—he had never really paid much attention to Caspar’s body, because they’ve both seen each other in various states of undress that he’s more or less grown accustomed to the other man, but he severely underestimated just how well the years have treated him. Linhardt teases a nipple between his fingers while flicking his tongue over the other one, pleased at the low groan that gets him, but he doesn’t linger there long—he moves further down until he’s at the foot of the bed, head between Caspar’s thighs.

“Oh, hell,” Caspar says, which is all he gets out before Linhardt licks a stripe down the hard length of his cock through his underwear. The fabric is already wet, mostly from sweat and partially from pre-cum, but Linhardt doesn’t mind, and by the way Caspar’s entire body jolts, Caspar doesn’t either. “L-Lin, ah, fuck…”

Caspar’s fucked his mouth before, Linhardt knows, and it had felt absurdly good, but Linhardt has a feeling anything they do from now on will feel ten times better. He’s tempted to tease Caspar a little longer, but frankly Linhardt’s never been one for patience, so he tugs the underwear out of the way; Caspar’s cock springs out hard and waiting, and Linhardt practically slurps up the beads of pre-cum at the tip, earning himself another shaky moan from Caspar for his efforts. “Lin, d-do you want me to…”

Linhardt thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head. “I told you. Let me.” He doesn’t take Caspar in his mouth right away—he kisses the tip, amused at Caspar’s bugged-out expression, then licks around the shaft, drags his lips down his length, digs his tongue against the slit. Linhardt has had plenty of chances to hone his blowjob-giving skills by now, and he’s glad he’s only improved when Caspar is a trembling, groaning mess just from this. He actually _yells_ when Linhardt finally has mercy and sucks the head into his mouth, and Linhardt issues a silent apology to whomever might be in the rooms beside them.

Has Linhardt ever taken Caspar all the way in? He can’t remember right now, probably because his head is beginning to fog over in that pleasant way it always does when he finds himself in this position. Linhardt strokes what he can’t reach for now but inches his way further down, down, down until stretching his tongue out has him tasting the base of Caspar’s cock. There’s a hand in his hair and Linhardt leans into the touch for a moment before he bobs his head, up and down, and Caspar _pulls,_ hard. Linhardt moans around his mouthful, feeling his eyes dampen with tears—his hair is one of the few things he takes genuine care of, but _goodness_ if Caspar pulling on it like this isn’t another reason he keeps it long.

Linhardt gives himself a moment to catch his breath, ignoring the ache in his own crotch, before gripping Caspar’s thighs and sliding even further down his cock until the bulging head hits the back of his throat and his nose is buried in the patch of coarse hair at the base. “ _Fuck,_ Lin,” Caspar whines, one arm thrown over his face, “you’re so—so fucking gorgeous like this, fuck—”

The praise has him whimpering and dick stirring—Linhardt’s always been weak for compliments, but when it’s from Caspar, and when he sounds like _that…_ He hollows his cheeks, sucks _hard,_ tastes pre-cum going down his throat and Caspar only has time to choke out, “Shit, ah, Lin, I-I’m gonna—” before he’s coming, spurting into Linhardt’s mouth—he tries to swallow but most of it spills out and dribbles down his lips and chin. Normally he turns his nose up at any sort of avoidable mess, but Linhardt adores this, _savors_ how the cum feels as he lets his mouth hang open so Caspar can get a good view of how it looks dripping down his face.

“Saints, you’re gonna drive me crazy like that,” Caspar huffs out, adorably breathless. Linhardt simply hums, licking his cock clean before shuffling up to lay beside Caspar on the (admittedly cramped, but whatever) bed; in turn, Caspar grabs the corner of his blanket to wipe the cum off Linhardt’s face. “It’s chill,” Caspar says, when Linhardt opens his mouth to protest. “Laundry day’s, like, tomorrow.”

“You’d subject the monastery staff to that?” Linhardt says, his voice coming out embarrassingly hoarse. It’s fine—Caspar’s heard him sound worse than this.

Caspar just kisses him, which Linhardt supposes is better than anything else he could have said. It probably feels strange to taste oneself on another person’s lips, but Caspar never seems to mind—enjoys it, almost, what with how he moves atop Linhardt once more to deepen the kiss even further. His hands move down to rub at Linhardt’s nipples, and Linhardt’s soft moan escalates into a louder, needier whine when Caspar starts tugging and tweaking and teasing. “Cas—Caspar,” Linhardt groans, too aroused to care about how degenerate he sounds.

“Feels good?” Caspar moves from his lips to his throat, nipping and nibbling and drawing a sharp gasp from Linhardt when he bites down hard enough that Linhardt’s sure that’s going to leave a beautiful bruise in the morning. “Want more, Lin?”

“Aren’t you tired?” Linhardt asks, maybe a little too bluntly—he knows he always is, especially after an orgasm.

Caspar grins. “I think I can go on all night if it’s with you.” And then, before Linhardt can even begin to process those words in his head, Caspar reaches for his bedside dresser, pulls one of the drawers open, and procures—oh. “Do you want to, Linny?” Caspar asks, waving the bottle of oil; his free hand returns to Linhardt’s nipple and _twists_ the stiff bud. Linhardt buries his face in his shoulder with a long, desperate groan. “Come on, I wanna hear a yes.”

Oh, dear. Caspar’s certainly gotten more used to taking on a more dominant role. This, of course, is something Linhardt is _not_ going to complain about. “Yes,” Linhardt sighs, leaning back and spreading his thighs, bending his legs at the knee. “Please.”

The way Caspar’s gaze narrows in on his ass is rather endearing. Linhardt screws his eyes shut when Caspar prods at his entrance with slick fingers, rubbing and stroking steadily and rhythmically, and—“ _Oh,_ ” Linhardt breathes, gripping onto the sheets beneath him when Caspar slips the first finger in. It’s been a while since they’ve fucked, all things considered, and it never feels as good when Linhardt does it himself, so it takes everything he has not to rock back on Caspar’s hand. “Yes, keep—keep going,” he encourages instead, looking up at Caspar through bleary eyes.

Caspar bends down to kiss his forehead, his nose, his cheeks and eyelids, all the while inching his index finger in deeper. “Gonna try something,” he mumbles, though Linhardt barely hears him over the haze of arousal very quickly overtaking his rational thoughts. “You’ll be good for me, Lin?”

“Yes, yes, I—I’ll be good,” Linhardt manages, breathing fast and shallow, “please, just—” The rest of his words devolve into sounds he stifles in the back of his palm when Caspar adds another digit. He can’t help it—Linhardt rolls his hips, takes Caspar’s fingers in deeper, but the pleasure he gets from that only lasts a second because Caspar’s other hand holds him down by the waist, pinning him in place with effortless strength. “C-Cas…?”

Caspar only grins again. “Let me,” he says, mimicking Linhardt’s earlier words, and that should _not_ be sending blood rushing to Linhardt’s dick, but, well, it does. “We’re not in a hurry, are we?”

“Speak for yourself,” Linhardt mumbles, but he settles down anyway.

True to his words, Caspar takes his time spreading Linhardt open—he rubs at his insides, scissors him several times, litters Linhardt’s thighs with kisses and bites until there are marks and bruises scattered all over the pale skin. Linhardt’s initial impatience fades away, replaced by lazy contentment he so rarely gets to feel now during wartime. Caspar is just so good, so _perfect,_ and Linhardt thinks he could drown in this feeling, this love, and only resurface once everything is over and there is nothing stopping them from doing this again and again and again, away from all the blood and violence and fighting.

Linhardt almost laughs aloud to himself—he didn’t expect to be struck by sudden sentimentality in the middle of something like this, but he supposes nothing about Caspar is ever predictable.

Caspar, of course, chooses that moment to finally add a third finger, which jolts every single one of Linhardt’s senses back to the present situation—he mumbles something that may be an approximation of Caspar’s name, and Caspar moves up to kiss him again, making it terribly difficult for Linhardt to keep his wits about himself, especially when Caspar’s hand is speeding up, thrusting rather than simply opening Linhardt up now. “Mmh—ah—hah—Cas,” Linhardt somehow manages, “I—I’m ready, please…”

“Shh.” Caspar nips at a spot on Linhardt’s collarbone. “Told you I wanted to try something.”

Linhardt doesn’t get a chance to respond to that because Caspar’s adding a fourth finger and _oh,_ fuck, it feels _good—_ not as big as an actual cock but his hand delivers a different sort of pleasure, pressing and pressing and _digging_ against Linhardt’s insides. Linhardt gasps, claws at the sheets for purchase, and then his moan gets caught in his throat when Caspar twists his wrist and finds the spot that has Linhardt seeing stars. “There, there,” he babbles, arching his back, face buried in the pillow beneath him, “please, oh—”

“So good, Lin,” Caspar’s whispering, barely audible over Linhardt’s various noises, “you’re so good for me, you’re so fucking pretty—” He finds Linhardt’s prostate again and _rubs_ against it mercilessly for a few euphoric seconds before pulling back and then _thrusting_ inside, fucking Linhardt with his fingers, hitting that spot without fail each time and then Linhardt doesn’t even realize he’s coming, completely untouched, until he feels stray drops of his own cum on his chest and he realizes the broken moan he’d heard earlier had been from _him._

Caspar pulls out with a harsh exhale. “You went and came before I could get to five.”

“I—” Linhardt takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I w-wouldn’t have stopped you.” His vision is swimming and he can feel his body threatening to shut down on him, so he reaches up and gropes blindly until he can tug Caspar down to kiss him back to alertness and arousal. “But now,” Linhardt breathes, “I really—want you to fuck me. Right now.”

Caspar blinks, face flushed and lips swollen. “Right now?”

“Right now. Before I—” Linhardt just barely suppresses a yawn. “Before I fall asleep. Please.” He doesn’t want this to end, not just yet, not when his hole is clenching around nothing and _definitely_ not when he can feel Caspar’s stiff cock pressing against his thigh. The last thing he needs now is for Caspar to finish in his hand when Linhardt has a perfectly usable ass.

“Oh, man, well—well, I can’t just say _no_ if you’re gonna ask me like that,” Caspar stammers, looking almost _shy,_ which is hilarious considering what they’d just done. He swings Linhardt’s legs up to rest on his shoulders—oh, Linhardt _likes_ this position—and practically pours half the bottle’s contents onto his cock, slicking it up with oil. “Lin,” Caspar sighs, “you know, you—you look so fucking sexy right now.”

“Have you never seen me lying down before?” Linhardt asks, genuinely nonplussed.

“I _meant_ with your—your cum all over you,” Caspar says, blushing furiously.

Linhardt makes a little _oh_ noise of understanding. He must be quite the sight right now—he’d come hard enough that it reached his chest, for goodness’ sake. Has that ever happened before? Well, by the way Caspar is eyeing him like he wants to eat him up, maybe Linhardt should try to see if he can do it again. “Surely you can admire me and fuck me while you’re at it,” Linhardt remarks, unable to resist a smirk at the sputter that gets him.

Caspar growls under his breath, a sound that should not be as attractive as Linhardt finds it. “Can’t say no to that either,” he says. He lines his cock up with Linhardt’s hole, and Linhardt is just about quivering in excitement when he feels the head prod at his entrance. He almost doesn’t realize Caspar’s already easing his way in, from how spread open he is, but he throws his head back with a groan when Caspar slides the rest of the way inside—he’s as delightfully big as ever, enough to push all other thoughts out of Linhardt’s head, leaving only him and Caspar’s cock slowly beginning to fuck in and out of him.

“You’re so good for me,” Caspar’s murmuring, the words familiar but still as comforting as ever. “You’re so good, Lin. Can you spread your legs a little more for me? Can you do that?”

Linhardt can only moan lowly, doing as Caspar asks—he bucks his hips, trying to match Caspar’s pace, taking his cock in deeper and deeper but Linhardt still wants more, still _needs_ more, needs Caspar to fuck him until he’s full to bursting and even then Linhardt thinks he’d still beg for more and more and more. “Cas,” he gasps, only now aware the tears from earlier have returned to trail down the sides of his face, “Cas, Caspar—”

“Right here, Lin,” Caspar groans. One hand is squeezing Linhardt’s thigh, thumb digging into the soft flesh, while the other one— _ahh_ —the other one is playing with his own nipple, pinching and pulling, and Linhardt thinks he could get drunk on this sight for the rest of his life. “You feel so good, love you so damn much—”

Linhardt _sobs_ when he comes this time, so much faster and even harder than earlier, spilling all over himself again—he can feel his cum dripping wetly down his stomach and thigh and he feels so fucking _filthy,_ in the best possible way. And Caspar stares but doesn’t stop, just fucks him through his orgasm, harder and harder and faster and faster, pounding against his prostate until Linhardt can’t move, can’t think, can only lie back with his arms over his head and babble _Caspar_ and _more_ and _yes yes yes_ as the bed judders with each of Caspar’s thrusts.

Caspar’s moans are only growing louder, less restrained, his movements erratic and desperate and Linhardt can feel it, can feel his thick cock twitching and throbbing inside him—“Lin,” Caspar gasps, “Lin, I’m g-gonna—”

“Please, inside,” Linhardt gasps, mustering just enough energy to tighten around Caspar’s cock.

The sound Caspar makes when he comes is indescribable, partially because Linhardt doesn’t register anything outside of the cum Caspar shoots inside him—there’s so _much,_ and it feels like it takes forever until he stops, pulling out of Linhardt with a full-body shiver. Cum drips out of Linhardt’s hole, trailing down his thighs and the curve of his ass in thin rivulets, and Linhardt whines when Caspar fingers it right back inside him. “Yes—yes,” he sighs, “I want it… inside…”

“Good boy,” Caspar praises, breathless; Linhardt quivers at the phrase. He doesn’t even need oil—his fingers slip right inside Linhardt, slicked up with his own cum, and Linhardt whimpers at the intrusion. “You still want more? You wanna come again, Lin?”

Linhardt genuinely has no idea if he _can_ come again, but that is not about to stop him. “Please—yes—”

Unexpectedly enough, Caspar pulls out, and Linhardt makes a noise of protest that almost instantly becomes a high moan when Caspar moves downwards to replace his fingers with his _tongue._ “Cas—ah, hah, ah, _fuck,_ ” Linhardt cries, gripping onto the sheets so hard he almost worries they’ll rip—Caspar had only done this once before, and it had mostly just been to experiment, but now he’s tongue-fucking Linhardt with mind-numbing skill, both hands gripping and squeezing Linhardt’s ass.

“I love you,” Linhardt gasps, reaching down with a shaking hand to grip Caspar’s hair. Caspar falters, but only for the briefest of seconds before he’s moving again, hard and fast. “I love you so much, Caspar, p-please, I—I can’t—”

The sounds Caspar is making are downright obscene, wet and sloppy, and Linhardt can just about feel the cum pouring out of him—he imagines it, thinks about how _wet_ he is, and then he’s jerking forward and coming for the third time, another sob falling from his lips, shivers wracking his body as he comes so hard it almost hurts. He vaguely registers Caspar pulling out, letting the cum inside him dribble out and pool on the sheets, and Caspar stroking his hair, pressing kisses to his throat, whispering sweet praises that only spur Linhardt’s orgasm more.

He’s not sure when he finishes, but at some point Linhardt opens his eyes to Caspar dozing off beside him on the bed—he still feels wet with cum in some areas, but for the most part he seems to have been more or less cleaned up well, albeit they’re both still naked. “Caspar?” Linhardt breathes; he’d expected his voice to come out more hoarse, but he sounds surprisingly normal.

Caspar stirs, blinking blearily, then immediately jumps to attention when he sees Linhardt. “Hey! You’re awake!”

“Not so loud…”

“Oh, er, sorry.” Caspar gives him a kiss on the bridge of his nose as apology, which Linhardt will graciously take. “How are you feeling? Hold on, I’ll get you some more water.” He gets off the bed without waiting for a response, walking over to the nearby desk where a pitcher of water and two glasses are sitting upon. Linhardt, still half-asleep, simply stares appreciatively at Caspar’s bare ass.

Caspar perches on the edge of his bed while Linhardt sits up slowly, still wrapped in the blankets, to sip from the glass. “You almost passed out before you even finished coming,” Caspar says, conversational. “I think it’s been, uh. Half an hour? Good thing we didn’t have anything scheduled today.”

Linhardt hums in agreement. He finishes off the water, pours himself another glass, and finishes that off too before he sets the glass atop the bedside dresser, satisfied. “So,” he murmurs, “we’re…”

Caspar leans forward excitably. “We’re?”

This isn’t quite how it went in Linhardt’s imagination, but he supposes now is as good a time as ever. Linhardt takes Caspar’s hand and looks him right in the eye. “Caspar,” Linhardt says, injecting every bit of seriousness in his tone, “I would like to elope.”

He had been expecting surprise and shock, maybe a bit of arguing. Instead, Caspar just nods, looking equally serious. “No problem. How does after the war sound?”

Linhardt blinks, draws back. “What, is that it?”

“Hey, I’ve been thinking the same for forever, y’know!” Caspar pulls his feet up on the bed to sit cross-legged next to Linhardt, clasping one of Linhardt’s hands in both of his own. “I know you don’t care about your inheritance, and I’ve got nothing to my name either. Running off on our own kinda just sounds like the most natural thing we could do.”

“That… You make a good point,” Linhardt concedes. How is it that Caspar always manages to be better than him in these matters? “After the war… yes, I don’t mind. But you’ll have to promise me you won’t die before then.”

Caspar shakes his head. “Silly. That’s a given. How else are we gonna elope?” He leans in to kiss Linhardt again, and Linhardt gladly lets him do so, his eyes fluttering closed of their own accord. “The same goes for you, Lin,” Caspar whispers, when they separate. “You can’t go dying on me. I won’t let you. Hell, I’ll chain you up in this room until the war’s over if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”

Linhardt smiles. “I am the last person to say no to some chains, but you hardly need to go that far. I— _We_ —have lived this long. A little bit more fighting won’t kill me.”

Caspar rests their foreheads together. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Linhardt seals it with another kiss. “Besides, after three orgasms in a row, death hardly scares me anymore.”

“ _Lin!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> [part 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25692178)   
>  [part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25710736)
> 
> thank you for reading (❁´◡`❁) if you liked this, check out [this tweet](https://twitter.com/featherxs/status/1239788477807349760)!
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